


The Project 57 Parody

by 852_Prospect_Archivist



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: Humor, M/M, Other: See Story Notes, Series: The Redemption Project 57, other pairing - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 03:24:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/793476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/852_Prospect_Archivist/pseuds/852_Prospect_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Here's a quick parody of the Project 57 universe, and of UPN, and of slash in general.  I mean no disrespect if I should offend any of my fellow slashers by accident.  I wanted to write something humorous and I thought the best person to poke fun at would be me.<br/>This story is a sequel to Loving You Less Than Life and Time Does Not Bring Relief.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Project 57 Parody

## The Project 57 Parody

By Kadru

Disclaimers: I make no financial claims to Jim or Blair yada yada because they're owned by UPN and Pet Fly. Please don't sue. I'm just taking them out to play with. I will put them back where I found them. 

Warnings: hardly any, a few dirty words 

Summary: Here's a quick parody of the Project 57 universe, and of UPN, and of slash in general. I mean no disrespect if I should offend any of my fellow slashers by accident. I wanted to write something humorous and I thought the best person to poke fun at would be me. 

Notes: This hasn't been even remotely beta'd for a very important reason. This is one of two gifts I wanted to make to the betas who have helped me whip these boys into shape -- Rie, Russ, Ozy and Christie. Couldn't do this without you! Well, I could, but then I'd suck. 

* * *

Inside the loft, Blair lay back on the sofa, smiling a soft, relaxed smile that brightened his blue eyes. What little light there was came from the fire which Jim had banked high. The only colors in the room were black and orange with a warm ruby hint of burgundy from the two glasses of red wine balanced on the coffee table within easy reach. The crackling of the fire echoed off the brick walls, merging with the mellow sounds of Blair's Spanish guitar CD. With an easy grin, Blair rolled his arms behind his head and squirmed as Jim came closer, leaning over his guide to plant a soft kiss on his cheek, then his nose and finally his lips. 

"I thought I'd lost you today, Chief." 

"So not a chance," Blair whispered, running his finger from Jim's ear, down his jaw to his kissable lips. 

"I'm not joking. I thought you were dead this time." 

Blair cupped his hand around the back of Jim's neck and pulled him closer for another kiss. "I love you, Jim." 

"I'd do anything for you, babe." 

"Let me look at you." 

"Huh?" 

"Jim, your body is like so a feast for the eyes." Blair winked. "And this poor sucker's starving to death." 

Smiling, trying not to laugh, Jim lifted himself from the couch and stood before his lover. Slowly, in rhythm to the Latin guitars, Jim began to sway while unbuttoning his flannel shirt. Once stripped, his bare muscles glowed in silhouette as he stood in front of the fire. Blair let his eyes travel across the round curves and bulges on Jim's shoulders and arms, the smooth pecs. Starting at his neck, Jim ran his hands across his chest, down his firm rippled stomach, and when he reached his khaki slacks, popped the button, unzipped the fly, and then slowly slipped his slacks to his ankles, revealing his blindingly white jockey underwear. 

"CUT!" 

Jim spun around, almost tripping on the pants wrapped tightly around his ankles. "What?" 

From her canvas chair, the director, a middle-aged woman with straight brown hair and round glasses, threw down her script, approached him and barked, "Jim, what the hell are those?" 

Jim looked down. "Uh . . . underwear?" 

"Jim, when have you ever worn anything other than boxers?" Not waiting for an answer, she hollered out, "Wardrobe! Wardrobe!" 

Another woman, in her twenties with long, curly red hair, set down her coffee and danish and sauntered over. "Yeah?" 

"Where's Jim's boxers?" 

"Sorry. We ran out." 

"You ran out?!" 

"Well, duh! I mean, like, all of the actors wear them. We just couldn't keep up." 

The director rolled her eyes and started pacing. Jim tried to follow her as best as he could, his feet still tangled in his shucked pants. "Can't I just do the scene in this?" he pleaded as he waddled. "I'll be out of them soon enough!" 

"No! The script specifically calls for boxers! We've always used boxers! Our audience demands boxers!" The director spun around to face Wardrobe again. "How soon before I can get this man in boxers?" 

"We get a new shipment in tomorrow. A whole truckload." 

"Fine, then." She sighed, then looked at her watch. "That's a wrap until tomorrow." 

As she stalked away, Jim stumbled after her. "But I can do the scene! I can do the scene!" 

A very blase Blair easily walked past his hobbling partner on his way to the green room. "Jim, please, pull up your pants." 

"But I can do the scene," he whined to anyone who would listen. 

* * *

Blair and Jim strolled down the hall, looking at scripts. "So what have you got?" Blair asked as he leaned over to scan Jim's script. Suddenly a frosted glass door opened just as they walked past the conference room, and Simon poked out his head. "Jim! Sandburg! Where the hell have you been? Didn't you get that notice yesterday?" 

"What notice?" Jim asked. 

Blair interrupted, "Oh, man, is that meeting today? 

Simon shot him an unhappy grunt, then opened the door wide for them. As Blair stepped in, he recognized the other actors, all from the same slash project. Didion Sachs -- tall, blond, ruggedly handsome -- and Sebastian Sanders -- svelte, dark-haired and goateed -- sat on one side of the table, while Ian Yoshito -- the sexy Japanese doctor -- and Collin McPherson -- the smart-assed, auburn-haired southerner -- sat on the side closest to the door. Along the far wall, in chairs away from the table, sat other characters. Jack McClairy looked up at Blair, a clean bullet hole in his forehead. Marshall Aigle ignored them as he read Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged. Catherine Gould stared out the window, her chest stained with a dark red circle. Dressed as a monk, Tom Poulsen thumbed through an issue of Gardening Monthly. 

Both Blair and Jim noticed the older woman sitting at the head of the table. She was short and a little pudgy with a large straw hat. The brim flopped down, almost touching her shoulders, but under the rim, Blair could see the rhinestone-studded, black-rimmed glasses that she used to see her knitting. Hard blue eyes suddenly looked up at Blair, then she glanced over at Simon at the other end of the table. He nodded to her as he sat down, and she calmly placed her knitting in a large canvas bag beside her chair. She slid the glasses off and let them hang by a chain on her large bosom. 

"First of all," she began with a thick southern accent and a sweet smile, "let me just say how much I appreciate y'all meeting with me today. My name is Myrtle, and I'm here to represent Kadru's subconscious." 

"Kadru?" Blair asked. 

"Yes. Kadru's asked me to be a representative today in these proceedings." 

"Proceedings?" Jim became nervous. 

"Yes. To begin with, Kadru would like to express deepest gratitude and appreciation for all the work that y'all have done with this Project 57 universe." 

Jim heard Collin whisper to Ian, "Project 57? Surely Kadru could come up with a better name for our universe than that." 

Myrtle didn't hear him, or either she chose to ignore him. "This has been a very successful series for us. We've been able to practice on a lot of scenes from these pieces, and we really appreciate how y'all've allowed us to kick start our creative juices." 

"Why do I sense a 'but' here?" Blair asked. 

Myrtle smiled like a grandmother offering cookies. "Well," her voice transformed into cold, executive steel, "we've decided to cancel this universe." 

"CANCEL?!" Everyone screamed. 

"Yes, I'm afraid so." 

"But why?" Blair challenged her. "Wasn't the feedback good?" 

"Oh, my goodness yes," Myrtle offered. "You have no idea how sweet and supporting the feedback has been. In fact, if we had made any money on this little venture, Kadru would have flown all over the world to hug each and every member of the SXF group." 

"I don't get it," Jim said before his jaw clenched. 

"Let me guess," Blair came back angrily. "Kadru wasn't counting female readers. Was that it? You guys were only interested in young male viewers. Like from say, the mid-west?" 

"No, honey, that's not it at all." 

"We can call the Sen Fen," Blair threatened. "We'll get everyone writing. We can call SOS. Save Our Slash! We'll make phone calls. We'll send faxes. We'll take out newspaper ads. We won't stand for this!" 

"Blair, sweetie--" 

"Don't call me 'sweetie,' you evil corporate monster." 

"Blair . . . do I look corporate?" 

Blair grew silent and his eyes narrowed. 

"To be quiet honest," Myrtle began. "Cost has been an issue. This slash has an extremely high budget, what with all the explosions. Why, the insurance coverage alone has nearly bankrupted us, not to mention the hospital costs in every episode. All that aside, this has been so much fun for Kadru to write, and there is true love and respect between both parties, but the truth is, your character development has strayed so far beyond canon that it's becoming increasingly difficult to keep writing." 

"What, Kadru can't write like the others? Can't handle a little alternative universe?" Jim asked, tapping on the script he still carried from his last shoot. 

"Jim, sweetie, you won't be on stage again until someone finds you some underwear." 

Jim crossed his arms, pouting. "Don't call me 'sweetie,'" he replied weakly. 

"And, truth is, Kadru wants to get into other projects outside of the Sentinel." 

Suddenly the door opened and a large-breasted, blond young woman popped in, giggling. Her vapid expression suddenly changed when Jack McClairy looked up at her with his punctured forehead. "Eww!" she pulled back, her red finger-nailed hands covering her glossy lips in shock. 

Simon caught her attention. "Excuse us, but the Babe of The Week Support Group is in the conference room across the hall." 

"Uhm . . . thanks . . I'm sure," she mumbled, a little uncertain as she took one last look at the row of animated corpses along the wall before closing the door. 

"Go on, ma'am," Simon said. "You were saying." 

"Well, Kadru is interested in expanding outside of The Sentinel." 

"Like what?" Sebastian asked. 

"Well, for instance. There's Voyager." 

"We can do Voyager," Jim offered. 

"I'm sorry, Jim, but there are other, better Voyager/Sentinel cross-overs. And Kadru has always had a soft spot for the Vampire Chronicles." 

"We can do vampires!" Blair added. 

"We know you can do vampires, Blair," Myrtle replied. "We've read them." 

"This is absurd!" Blair shouted. 

"Blair, honey, why are you so upset?" 

"Because Kadru has to finish this project. Do you know how many unfinished slash pieces there are? And that bitch left Jim and I broken up. We want to be together. We let ourselves be put through five long stories to be together, and now this?! And this was a murder mystery. Show me the murderer! Hello! Show. Me. The Murderer!" 

Myrtle rolled her eyes at Blair's histrionics. She reached into her sack and pulled out a stack of papers. "On Kadru's behalf, I have with me several contract extensions." 

"Extensions?" Jim asked. 

"Yes. These are in case Kadru decides to either finish the Project series, or wants to use your characters for other stories." She stood up and handed one to Blair and one to Jim. Then she walked to the end of the table to give one to Simon. 

"What about us?" Ian inquired cautiously, as if he was afraid of the answer. 

"Well, that's another story." She looked over at Sebastian. "Bass, Kadru wants you to return to some of the original fiction we were working on when we borrowed you." 

Sebastian dropped his head on the desk, "Dear God!" he cried out, "Don't send me back to that awful southern gothic crap!" 

Didion stroked his lover's back. "It's okay, baby." 

Suddenly Sebastian sprang up in his chair and grabbed Didion's hand. "What are you going to do to Didion?" 

"Well," Myrtle gave them a sympathetic look, "Didion's a sentinel, and . . . I'm afraid that belongs to Pet Fly." 

"But Pet Fly doesn't even know I exist!" 

"I know, dear. I know. And I hate to be the one to tell you this, but . . ." 

Didion suddenly paled. "W-what?" 

"Joan Didion called. She wants her name back." 

Didion threw back his head. "Dear God, NOOOOO!" 

Myrtle turned to Collin and Ian. "Well?" Collin asked like an arrogant man facing the executioner. 

"I have to admit," Myrtle replied. "You certainly took over, didn't you? Character hog. Scene stealer." 

"Your point?" He raised an auburn eyebrow. "Can I stay?" 

"Yes, you'll be working with Bass on several projects." 

"Not that wretched southern gothic shit? Who the hell needs a loud mouth faggot in a small hick town?" 

"What about me?" Ian interrupted. 

"I'm sorry, Ian. You just didn't work out." 

"What the bloody hell are you talking about? The feedback was --" 

Myrtle flashed her opened hand in his face and turned to the corpses. "And I'm afraid that goes for y'all as well." 

"Suits me just fine, mate," Jack said as he stood up and pointed to the bullet wound. "If anyone needs me, I'll be in Make-up getting this thing removed." Marshall and Catherine followed him out, but no one saw Tom leave, even though his chair was empty and the pages of his Gardening Monthly magazine flipped aimlessly in a mysterious breeze and a slightly holy light. 

* * *

Both Jim and Blair walked back to their dressing room in a daze. Although Jim was taking the news in his stereotypically stoic fashion, Blair kept shaking his head in disgust. "Slash writers. Jeez. They can't finish a damn thing and they always leave us hanging. I swear I don't know why I even got into this line of work in the first place." 

At that, Jim reached out and squeezed Blair's ass cheek. "Perks, Chief. Perks." 

Blair rolled his eyes as he pushed open their dressing room door. "I don't even get my own dressing room." 

Jim closed the door behind him before drawing Blair into a tight hug. "But you get to share it with me, Chief." He kissed him softly. 

"Good for you, maybe," Blair flirted, "but I'll get back to you on _my_ perks." He turned towards two desks opposite the lighted mirrors and wardrobe. His desk was covered in scripts in a sloppy mound, and as he sat down, he accidentally bumped the desk. With a rustle of papers, all the scripts slid off the top and scattered across the floor. "Damnit," Blair moaned as he threw up his hands. "This day just isn't getting any better." 

Jim sat down at his own reading desk, and he waved his arm across the meticulously neat stacks of scripts in varying heights. "You need to organize your scripts, Chief. You can never find the story line you need and they're always falling --" Jim reached down and picked up a few stray scripts "-- they're always falling on my side." 

"Your side? What, are we drawing lines across the dressing room now?" Jim ignored Blair's comment. "So tell me, Big Guy, what is this super-anal organization method you have there?" 

"These are all the plots that involve me having a secret life in Vice and not wanting you to find out. These are all the plots that have me in love with an old Army buddy who later dies so I can fall in love with you. These are the ones where we're in the closet and someone finds out and they try to kill you. These are the ones where we go on a vacation together and fall in love -- sub-divided into Key West, Hawaii and Arizona/New Mexico. Crossovers -- with X-Files, Voyager, Deep Space Nine, Pretender, Profiler, One Waikiki West. These are the wedding sketches. These are the break-up sketches. And then there's the paramilitary groups that we join after leaving Cascade. And then here are the hiking sketches, and the song lyrics, and the bondage ones, and --" 

"Okay okay okay!" Blair pulled his fallen scripts into a single stack. "I get the picture." 

"Organize yourself and you won't be making so many fuck-ups." 

"Fuck-ups? For your information, I am like so organized." 

Jim laughed as he shook his head. "Organized, my ass." 

Blair slammed down the pile of scripts on his desk and began stacking all of them into a single, very tall column. "These are all the scripts where I have a nipple ring." He pointed to the same stack again, "And these are the ones where I smell like herbs. And these are the ones where I get kidnaped. And these are the ones where I bottom for you first. These are the ones where you have to brush my hair out of my face before you kiss me. And the ones where I don't eat meat except for tongue. OH!," Blair looked at Jim with large, surprised eyes. "And would you believe it? These are all the ones where we wear boxers." 

Jim's face instantly soured and he began to mumble, "Maybe just once I'd like to wear briefs." 

A sharp rap on the door interrupted their argument. Blair answered for them, "Yeah?!" 

The door opened and a meek assistant with long brown hair and thick bottle glasses stepped in. Both men waved and said in unison, "Hey, Scooter." 

The assistant slapped her clipboard on her thigh and sucked in her breath angrily. "My name is not Scooter! It's Francine! Francine Francine Francine! Stop calling me Scooter!" 

Ignoring her as they always did, Blair asked, "What have you got for me?" 

"Damn Muppets," she mumbled before she checked her clipboard quickly and said, "You're wanted on set 19 in 10 minutes." 

"Set 19, Set 19 . . . . which script is that?" Blair began thumbing through his tall stack as he tried not to hear Jim's snickering. 

"It's the Kidney slash." 

Blair dropped his hands and stared up at the ceiling as if looking for celestial aid. "Oh, gods, help me. This day is just getting shittier and shittier and shittier." 

"What's the Kidney slash?" Jim asked. 

"That's the one where someone steals my kidneys and you have to go rescue them." 

Jim tried to suppress a smile. "Sounds intriguing." 

"Don't laugh, asshole. I have to go sit in a fucking bathtub filled with ice for the next 12 hours until you rescue me. It's already cold enough in here as it is, thanks to these damn slash writers. I mean, why is like so cold on this set anyway?" 

"All the better to see your nipples, my dear," Jim answered. 

* * *

Back in the conference room, the mood was much more dour. Didion remained sitting, his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. Sebastian sat beside him, rubbing his lover's back softly. "It's okay, baby. We'll get through this. I mean, you can live with me and we can survive this." 

Didion shook his head. "And have me do what, Bass? Run around in an apron and keep house?" 

"I'm sure there's something we can do. Extras. Walk-ons." 

"I didn't even get to keep my name!" 

"That might not be such a bad thing, babe. I mean, I did have to keep fighting the urge to call you Didi." Didion dropped his hands and glared at his lover. 

"Oh, stop your bloody bitching," Ian snapped at them as he stood next to Collin by the large glass window looking out onto the street. "We're all screwed." 

"Puh-lease," Sebastian shot back. "A comment like that coming from either of y'all is just too much." 

Collin turned. "What do you mean?" 

"I mean, at least Didion and I knew we were the bad guys and that we weren't going to stick around for long, but you two were pathetic, always trying to steal the scenes. Ian with all that sentimental romantic gush -- bathtubs and dried apricots and ski trips -- jeez, you are such a player! And you!" He pointed to Collin. "Yeah, you! My god, every time the story line fell on you, you had to go and start ad libbing all these one-liners. It wasn't that you were so good -- you just kept throwing us for a loop and we didn't know what our lines should be. Who the hell do you think you are, Dorothy Parker?" 

"More like Cher, if you ask me," Didion added. 

"What?" Collin put his hand behind his ear. "What was that? Did I hear a noise? Was someone speaking? Oh," he added facetiously, "it was you . . . uhm, you . . . what is your name again?" 

"Oh, kiss my fucking ass!" He stood up to threaten Collin, but Ian slipped between them, pushing Didion back. Angered even more, Didion pointed his finger in Ian's face. "And you, I should have killed you when I had the chance." 

"Oh yeah, well last time I looked, you were the bloody one who was dead." 

"Hey, I'm not dead until the conclusion and THAT --" he poked Ian in the chest -- "is canon!" 

"Canon?" Collin threw back at him. "You think canon would apply to any of us? Since when has someone written slash on slash?" 

"Hey hey hey!" Sebastian pushed all three men apart. "This isn't getting us anywhere." 

Ian threw up his hands. "There is no bloody hope for us." 

Collin turned towards the end of the conference room table, to the chair that Myrtle was sitting in when she had delivered the news, and he saw it -- the large canvas bag that held her knitting. "Unless," he said. He stepped towards the bag, pulled out the knitting, looked deeper inside and said with a devious smile, "Jackpot." 

* * *

"For the last damn time," the director yelled, "get in that bathtub before I shove you in!" 

Blair gritted his teeth. Already he stood on his knees in the freezing, ice-filled water, trying to lean backwards to submerge himself fully, but each time his bare buttocks touched the chilling water, he jerked himself out again. "Ow ow ow ow ow! . . . I'm never going to have sex again. Look at this!" He pointed to his groin. "It's shriveled up like a scared turtle." 

"Do I need to make a change in the script and have Lorena Bobbit kidnap your precious little turtle and have Jim try to rescue that instead?" 

"No no! I'm getting in, I'm getting in." He forced his waist into the ice water and screamed. In a panic, he flung out his right hand, knocking over the phone which was sitting on a chair next to the tub. He tried to grab for it, but that made him lose his balance and he fell completely into the ice. When he came up for air, he was gasping deeply. "Holy . . . shit!" 

"Good," the director said as she flopped back in her canvas chair. "Someone go pick up the phone and let's get this scene started." She leaned over to one of the assistants. "At least he didn't smear the lipstick message on the mirror." 

Suddenly Blair shouted out, "W-w-w-when is . . . Jim s-s-s-supposed to . . . c-c-c-ome rescue me?!" 

"He's busy right now." 

"B-b-b-b-busy!" 

"Yes. According to the script, he's being distracted." 

"What?!" 

"Something about having to write a thousand emails for some little boy who has cancer . . . I don't know, I didn't pay any attention to it. One of the assistant directors is handling that one. Now, Blair, I want you to focus on being really cold." 

"R-r-r-r-r-eally cold, she says," he mumbled through chipped teeth. "I like s-s-s-so hate my life." 

"Stop the scene!" 

Both Blair and the director looked over to see who had shouted. Jim came running onto the set with Simon chasing closely behind him. "Get up, Blair!" 

"Yes sir!" Blair immediately scrambled out of the ice water. 

The director threw down her script. "What the hell is going on here?" 

"It's Kadru's scripts!" Simon answered. "They've been stolen!" 

"I'm ready to go," Blair answered, standing between Simon and Jim. "Don't care who has them, don't care what I have to do to get them back, just get me off this set." 

Both Simon and Jim looked down at the shorter man. "Uhm, Blair," Jim began. 

"Yeah, big guy?" 

"Go put some clothes on." 

Blair looked down at his wet, naked self. "Oh, yeah. Clothes. Clothes would be good here." 

* * *

Sebastian, Didion, Ian and Collin tried to walk as nonchalantly as possible down the sidewalk, whistling. Only the large canvas bag with huge purple flowers on it seemed out of place, hanging on the crook of Collin's arm. "Everybody just stay cool," Collin whispered. Together, they stepped around other people, smiling slightly, as they put more and more distance between them and the slash studio. 

Back at the studio, Jim and Blair bolted through the front doors and onto the sidewalk. "Simon thinks Collin and the others took the scripts," Jim said to his partner who wrestled with a bulky sweater. The detective reached over and dragged the sweater down so that Blair's head popped out. 

"So what are we looking for?" Blair asked, pulling his long curly hair free of the sweater's collar. 

"Myrtle said she kept the scripts in her handbag." Jim looked down the street with his heightened vision. "Nothing's down there." Then he peered down the other end of the street. "Wait a minute. I think I see them." 

* * *

Didion glanced over his shoulder, letting his vision focus down to the studio entrance. "Shit," he mumbled. 

Ian asked, "What is it?" 

"Jim just spotted us. Here they come." 

"What do we do?" 

Didion glanced around him at the locked cars along the curb and no alleys to duck into. Then he noticed the scene towards the end of the street. A small crowd of children hovered around an ice cream truck, buying popsicles. "Quick," he shouted, "everyone head for the ice cream truck!" As they darted across the street, Didion added, "Bass, you're the one who used to drive in Atlanta traffic, you take the wheel. Everyone else in the back." The assassin charged for the unsuspecting vendor in the back of the ice cream truck. He raced inside, grabbed the man by the collar, and with a vicious swing punched the startled ice cream seller unconscious and tossed him out onto the sidewalk. 

Ian stepped gingerly over his prone body and said, "Did you have to be so bloody rough?" "Shut up and get in the truck!" 

At the other end of the street, Jim witnessed the attack. "Damn!" 

"What's going on?" Blair whined. "I can't see that far." 

"They're high-jacking an ice cream truck!" 

"Well don't freak out, Jim. My car's right here." 

Jim rolled his eyes. "Hello, Earth to Blair. Don't you read your own slash? Your car never starts. Hurry up, my truck's way down there." He pointed in the opposite direction. "Come on, get a move on." 

* * *

Didion maneuvered through the tight spaces in the van until he reached the passenger's seat in the front. "Go, Bass, go!" Sebastian didn't wait to hear his lover a second time as he gunned the engine, then pulled into traffic without looking. Several cars swerved to miss them, blaring their angry horns. "I said, 'Go,' not, Kill us." 

"Hey, you wanted the Atlanta driver at the wheel," he replied, cutting the corner so sharply that for just a second the left wheels rose from the ground. "Wow, this baby sure can't corner, can she?" 

"Just find a straight street --" 

Sebastian cut him a sly frown. 

"Okay, find us a _gaily forward_ street, and then gun it. We need as much distance as we can get before you start hitting those corners again." Didion rose from the passenger seat and slipped into the back of the van. Sebastian accelerated, and as he did, the tinkling melody of the ice cream truck's music grew faster and faster. 

mary had a little lambherfleecewaswhiteassnow 

"Cut the music off," Didion shouted from the back. "We can't outrun Jim if he all he has to do is listen for us." 

Sebastian glanced around at the dashboard. "There's nothing up here." 

"Are you sure?" 

"I've never driven an ice cream truck but I think I know what a fucking OFF switch would look like. Maybe it's back there." 

Collin interrupted them, "Hey, Didion, I think we have some trouble." 

"What now?" 

Collin showed him a script. All the pages were blank. Instantly Didion fell beside him and dumped Myrtle's canvas bag on the floor. He ran his hands across the myriad scripts, all without titles. Frantically, he, Ian and Collin flipped through page after blank page. "What is all this?" Ian asked. 

"I . . . I don't have a clue," Collin protested. 

Didion sat back on his heels for a moment, then clicked his fingers. He dashed towards the front of the van again and quickly opened the glove compartment. He tore through the items inside, tossing papers onto the floorboard. "There has to be a pen somewhere. How does this guy record his sales?" 

"A pen?" Ian yelled in question. "You're looking for a bloody pen?" 

"There are pens back here," Collin added. 

"Quick," Didion replied, "you're the character who's writing an English dissertation. Start writing." 

Collin picked up several pens and asked, "Write what?" 

"Slash, you idiot! Write slash! Finish the damn series!" 

As Collin settled down on the floor to begin writing, he grumbled, "Maybe I'll write in Duncan McCloud and have him cut your fucking head off." 

"I heard that!" 

Collin minced up his face and mouthed out the words, "I heard that." Just as he placed the pen to paper, the ice cream truck turned a sharp corner and everyone fell against the right wall. "Hey! Watch it! I'm trying to create back here!" 

Sebastian shouted back to them, "We have company!" 

* * *

Jim slammed his foot on the accelerator and gained ground on the frantic ice cream van, his sensitive ears tuned into the frenzied tinkling of music. He couldn't resist as his head rocked back and forth and his lips moved -- maryhadalittlelamb herfleecewaswhiteassnow. With almost feminine moves, he steered the heavy blue truck with the tips of his fingers. 

"Jim, damnit, will you concentrate! They're getting away." 

"They won't get away." 

"Shoot at them!" "Can't." 

"Why not?!" 

"Can't shoot and drive at the same time." 

"Well, then, hand me your gun. I'll lean out the window and shoot at them." 

"Nothing doing, Chief." 

"What do you mean?" 

"It's not canon. You don't like guns, remember?" 

"Damnit, Jim --" 

"And that's not your line either. That's Dr. McCoy's line." 

Blair twisted his face in frustrated ire. "I don't ever get to have any fun." 

"Hey Chief, did you ever stop to wonder why we're chasing after these guys in the first place?" 

"They have Kadru's scripts." 

"So? I mean, they don't want this series to end any more than we do. So why are we trying to stop them?" 

Blair's eyes narrowed and he stared forward through the windshield. Finally he said, "I don't think I trust them with how it's going to end." 

Jim narrowed his eyes, too, and clenched his jaw. "I think you might be right." His foot pressed even heavier on the gas peddle. 

* * *

Ian and Didion jostled for position to peer out the cloudy glass windows in the back doors of the ice cream truck. "They're gaining on us," Didion growled. "Bass! Jim and Blair are catching up! Lose them!" 

"Why do you think they're after us?" Ian asked. 

"What? Are you insane? They want the scripts." 

"So what? Those two are slash actors. All they do is slash. They bugger each other all day long. And when they aren't buggering each other, they bugger stand-in's. What do they care about our story line?" 

Didion glanced over at Ian with a grimace. "Excuse me? This is coming from the only man in here to actually get a real sex scene?" 

"I got a blow job!" Sebastian called out from the driver's seat. 

Neither man heard him. "What are you talking about?" Ian asked. 

"You. You got to fuck Blair in a bathtub." 

"I got a blowjob!" Sebastian tried again. 

"Well, what about you and Bass in your bedroom?" 

"I got a blowjob!" 

"That was strictly G-rated. Nothing happened." 

"Hey, I got a blowjob!" 

"Shut up!" both men yelled in unison. "We heard you!" 

Collin threw up his hands. "Will y'all both shut up?! I had nothing happen, and I repeat, nothing! So quit your bitching." 

"You keep writing," Didion commanded with a point of his finger to Collin, "and you, Bass, you keep driving." 

Ian shoved Didion's shoulder roughly. "That still leaves Jim close behind us." 

"We need to stall him." 

"No guns, huh?" 

"No, Doc, no guns," Didion answered snidely before he looked around the back of the van. The tinkling sound of the music rapidly accelerating and stopping as Sebastian tried to evade Jim and Blair began to pierce his nerves. His eyes fell upon the cooler filled with ice cream. Quickly his brain cells snapped. "Here, help me with this." As he pushed open the ice cream cooler, his hand reached into his back pocket and pulled out a slim knife. 

"Where'd you get that?" Ian asked. 

"Army Ranger." 

"Bloody Army Ranger, my ass. You're a slash actor." 

"Okay, okay, so I worked in a mail room until I got this job, okay?" Didion snapped open the blade. "And I ain't going back." He pulled out the first box of ice cream and slid his knife blade down the edges of the cardboard. When he had cut all of the corners, he picked up another box, then repeated the process until he had several blocks of ice cream opened. 

"What are you doing?" 

"Here, help me. When I open the back doors, you and I will catapult these onto Jim's windshield." 

"Oh. All right." 

"Are you ready?" 

Ian glanced back at Collin, who was diligently scribbling on the page. "I suppose so." 

"Fine then. Here goes." 

* * *

Blair noticed the ice cream van's back doors swing open and he squinted slightly. "What are they doing?" Before Jim could make a suggestion, Didion and Ian balanced themselves at the opening and swung their arms back and forth a few times. Suddenly, a square green missile flew into the air, arching beautifully, only to land with a loud, wet smack on the hood of Jim's truck. Both Blair and Jim jerked in surprise. "What the fuck?!" 

Almost immediately, another ice cream volley flew in the air, this time splattering the windshield with orange sherbet. Jim craned his head to try and look around the orange starburst. Almost automatically, his hand reached for the windshield wipers, which jabbed into the sticky mass of ice cream and smeared orange further into his field of vision. "Shit," he had enough time to mumble before a third shot of butter pecan landed on the windshield right in front of him. 

* * *

"Okay," Didion said authoritatively, "enough with that." He reached into the ice cream cooler and pulled out several boxes of Push-Up's and Dreamsicles. With a militant scowl on his face, he hurriedly shucked the wrappings from the ice cream, then grabbed one by the stick. As if he was flinging a knife blade, Didion took aim and threw. The first orange Dreamsicle spun in the air and landed in an area on Jim's windshield not already covered by sherbert and butter pecan. Fire after fire of Dreamsicles and Push-Up's smacked on the glass until Jim was completely blinded. 

With quick thought, Jim rolled down his windshield and tried to peek through the opening to see. 

Didion was ready for him. Before Jim could get a clear point of vision, a hard ice cream sandwich nailed him on the nose. "Damnit!" Jim shouted as he returned to peering through creamy smears on his windshield and wiping his face clean. 

Back in the ice cream van, Didion yelled, "Ian, help me with these!" Didion reached into the ice cream cooler for the large tubs of ice cream. 

"What are we going to use these for?" Ian asked as they hefted the tub of vanilla. 

"On the count of three." They began to swing in, then out. "One . . . Two . . . Three!" 

The heavy tub tumbled in the air, landing on the asphalt just in front of Jim's right tire. They watched as Jim's truck leapt upward, then bounced down. 

Jim fought for control of the steering wheel as they were momentarily airborne, Blair being tossed all over the cab. When they came down, Blair bashed his chin on the dashboard and cried out. Jim only had a chance to glimpse Blair rubbing his bleeding lips before looking back through the spots on the windshield. 

"Again!" Didion commanded. Both he and Ian reached for a second heavy tub of ice cream. "One . . . two . . . three!" 

This time, the tub twirled end over end, smashing against the hood, denting the metal, before the bucket smacked against the glass. The glass windshield cracked in a vicious spider web but held tight. The windshield wipers were suddenly freed from the heavier remnants of orange sherbet and spread an even layer of orange and white swirls across the crackled glass. "Fuck," Jim mumbled, now forced to keep peeking his head out the side window to see where he was going. 

Only Didion was ready for him. He had a handful of ice cream sandwiches ready, prepared to bean Jim each time he looked out for clear vision. Behind Didion, Ian wrestled with another heavy tub of ice cream. "Are you ready," the doctor asked. 

"Yeah." Didion put down his smaller missiles for the larger dairy bomb. He helped Ian with the tub, grabbing one end with his left and the bottom with his right. "One . . . two . . . three!" 

The tub of Rocky Road sailed into the air, this time without spinning, and it landed with full force into the already weakened windshield. The hard ice cream punched through the glass, crashing into Jim, knocking his hands free of the steering wheel as it twisted the metal violently. Jim's precious blue truck veered into a car unluckily parallel-parked. The ensuring crash at a high speed pitched the rugged truck in the air before landing it on the trunk of a white Chrysler Cirrus, then falling over. 

Shaking himself into consciousness, Jim quickly looked over at Blair, his long curly hair ruffled. "Blair?! Blair! Speak to me! Are you all right!" 

Blair spit out several thick strands of hair from his mouth. "Yeah," he mumbled. "I'm fucking fantastic." 

* * *

Back in the ice cream truck, Ian and Didion watched as Jim swerved into the parked car, both men in shock. The blue truck leapt into the air, smacking into the second car's trunk before landing sideways in the narrow street. Didion looked at Ian first, and both men weren't sure how to react before their hearts took over. They shouted in unison, slapping open hands in a joyous high five. "We did it!" Didion shouted. "We did it! We took the son-of-a-bitches out!" 

"With bloody ice cream!" Ian added. 

But up front, in the driver's seat, events were beginning to take an ugly turn. 

As Sebastian guided the victorious vehicle towards an intersection, he noticed a tall muscular blonde woman, who looked surprisingly like Seven Of Nine from Star Trek's Voyager, step off the sidewalk and into the road. Being the southerner that he was, he couldn't help himself, and he swerved to miss her. 

The ice cream truck pitched sideways, unable to withstand the momentum of turning so sharply. Flipping onto its side, the ice cream truck sprayed the street with orange sparks as it skidded through the intersection and crashed into the corner telephone pole. 

After a few moments, Ian was the first to move. In a panic, he tossed bucket and box of ice cream off his young lover. "Collin! Collin! Are you all right?" 

Beneath an even layer of cookie-dough ice cream, Collin opened his eyes and frowned. "I've been better," he mumbled. He wiped the melting cream from his face, unable to get the stickiness from his beard. 

Didion crawled over both of them and squeezed into the front seat. "Bass? Bass?" He noticed Sebastian curled in a ball against the door. He wasn't moving. "Bass!" Didion carefully eased his way to Sebastian, making sure not to step on him as he slipped his arms around his lover. His sensitive skin felt Sebastian's pulse, and he caressed the young man's face. "Bass, come on. Wake up." 

Sebastian moaned. 

"That's it, baby. Stay with me." Didion slid in closer, lifting his lover to embrace him, feeling his spine for damage. As he did, he noticed the cut on Sebastian's face and the long smear of blood. "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't know this would happen. I'm sorry." 

Slowly Sebastian moved his arms around Didion's chest as he sighed, pulling Didion closer. "I'm okay." 

"Where does it hurt?" 

"All over." 

"Anything major?" 

"No. I don't think so. Just get me out, okay?" 

"Sure thing, baby." Didion stood up inside the cab, then reached above his head for the doorknob. It wasn't jammed, and so he turned back to Sebastian. "Try to stand up," he commanded as he gave Sebastian his hand. Slowly, Sebastian pulled himself up. Didion wrapped his strong arm around Sebastian's waist. "Okay, let's try to climb out. Put one foot here," he pointed to the passageway to the back section of the truck. "Good." 

"Ow!" Sebastian cried out sharply. 

"What is it? Is it your leg?" 

"It's my knee." 

"It's okay. It's okay." He pulled Sebastian closer to his chest. "Hold on to me tight." Using his muscled legs, Didion pulled them both to the doorway above. Sebastian tried not to moan but Didion could tell he was hurting. Once outside, Didion jumped to the ground, then picked Sebastian up, easing him to the asphalt. "Come on," he whispered before he kissed him on the cheek. "Sit down right here." They sat down together on the curb. 

Ian and Collin had already climbed out of the back, and they were busy trying to wipe off the ice cream with the tiny napkins they had found. In one hand, Collin clutched the script he had been writing. 

"Well?" Didion asked. 

"It's finished." 

The others sighed with relief, but their comfort was short lived as several police cars arrived on the scene. Jim and Blair bolted out of the back seat of one of the cars and yelled, "Freeze!" 

Didion looked back at Sebastian, and both men rolled their eyes. Sebastian rested his bleeding forehead on Didion's shoulder, and the muscular blond gently kissed him. 

* * *

Moments after the ambulance arrived, a third police car parked on the scene. The passenger-side door flung open and Myrtle pulled herself out. With angry steps, she stormed towards the other actors. "Well? Did you get the scripts?" 

"Yes, ma'am," Jim answered as he handed them to her. "You'll notice that the series has been finished." 

Myrtle snatched the script from Jim, then wrinkled her face in disgust as she realized it was covered in sticky, melted ice cream. "Ew, what is this?" She held the corners with her thumb and forefinger. 

Collin, walking past her, calmly remarked, "I'm sure that's not the first time you've ever gotten something back with the pages stuck together." He grinned primly as he kept going. 

Myrtle rolled her eyes. "Slash actors. Impossible to work with." 

* * *

Simon was the first to greet Jim and Blair at the entrance to the slash studio. "I heard you caught them. Good job." 

Jim shrugged his shoulders slightly. "All in a days work." 

"Speaking of work." 

Simon, Jim and Blair turned when they heard the woman's voice. Behind them stood Francine with her militant clipboard. "Hey, Scooter." 

She ignored them. "I think it's time you three got back on the set." 

"Sure," Blair said, "as long as it's not that kidney slash." 

"That's been postponed. All the ice melted." 

"Such a damn shame." 

Francine lifted one eyebrow. "Oh, I'm sure. You need to get to set 12." 

Simon leaned in to whisper, "I'll see you guys later." 

"Not so fast, Simon," Francine said. "You're in this one, too." 

Simon's back straightened. "Oh really?" Then he leered at Blair. "Been a long time since I last got a crack at that tight little ass of yours, Sandburg." Simon squeezed his groin. Blair shivered slightly in trepidation, remembering the last scene he had done with Simon and how sore he was afterwards. 

"Simon," Francine interrupted, "you'll need to step over to wardrobe. Rafe and Brown are already dressed." She pointed to the two actors dressed in full leather, standing next to six other men. 

Blair grew pale. "You mean I have to service all those guys?" 

Jim nudged Simon. "Should be fun, huh, captain?" 

Francine answered Blair. "Oh, you won't be bottoming for those guys. You need to follow Simon over to wardrobe." 

"All right!" Blair held up his hand for a quick high-five with Simon before they both hurried to wardrobe. 

"What about me?" 

"Oh, you'll be wearing this," Francine handed Jim a leather blindfold. "And nothing else." Then she smiled wickedly and wiggled her eyebrows. "Unless you consider the leather fuck-swing you'll be strapped into." She patted Jim on the rear. "Now let's get a move on. We'll all be waiting for you . . . on the set." Behind her glasses, her eyes glowed with lust. 

FINIS 


End file.
